Page 15 of A Good Mother
‘So, what you’re saying is that you’d rather ignore the wishes of your wife, than offend that lot. You’re happy to put your idea of a perfect holiday before mine, not even prepared to compromise.’
I could hear the anger in my voice, and it was one of those situations where that rage could easily turn to tears and hysteria, so I forced both back and waited. When Pete spoke, I wasn’t prepared for the sarcasm, let alone his words.
‘Oh, stop being a drama queen! I’m sick of your mood swings and the snappy way you talk to me and the kids. It’s like living with Jekyll and Hyde. It’s like tonight, you were in a mood, and everyone could tell. You need to sort yourself out…’
I’d heard this little speech so many times before, telling me I needed to go to the doctors and get some pills, and seeing as I’d pulled onto the drive I didn’t even bother to listen to the rest. I got out, slammed the door, and went inside leaving him to turn off the engine and lock up. Then I slept on the settee. For a week.
And you know what it was, it was the memories of our family holidays that did it, when we scrimped enough to go away and bundled into an old banger loaded to the roof, with more on top.
Yes, at the beginning it was a rough and ready holiday then slowly, we were able to afford a bit more and once Pete was promoted and I started my little cleaning business, we took our first holiday abroad. I’ll never forget how excited we all were, going to the airport in a minibus, and then on a plane and even Isaac came along. It was a lovely time.
I’ll also never forget, how, that night in the car, Pete didn’t give me a chance, to tell him what my idea of a holiday would be, to listen to my imaginings. Because it wasn’t just for me that I wanted us to break free of ‘the gang’. It was for us.
I thought maybe, if we had some time together, took a walk hand-in-hand along a beach at sunset, hired a jeep and drove to the mountains to watch the sunrise. Or sat opposite each other at a small round table in a little Greek taverna, looking over the ocean, we’d reconnect.
It didn’t have to be abroad either. I’d have been happy with a beach hut in Skegness as long as we talked, laughed, remembered. Found our way back to a point in our marriage where even if it wasn’t perfect, we had enough in the tank, some shared dreams, and interests to see us through to the end, the last leg of our lives together.
But he didn’t and while I have somehow managed to smother the many disappointments and regrets along the way, when I think of that conversation, the anger reignites.
And it’s not the menopause, because everybody blames bloody everything on that.
It’s us.
We don’t fit anymore. I don’t fit. Into this life I’m leading, even my sodding clothes, and – this is the worst bit – what hurts the most, is that sometimes I don’t feel like I fit into our family, either. It’s like I’m on the edge, looking in, surplus to requirements but still required to perform motherly tasks, even wifely tasks every now and then, and that’s not right. Thinking these thoughts isn’t right either and I hate myself even more because of it.
So, I’ve decided, during the long and lonely hours since 4.27am, that I’m going to use being in lockdown wisely, while I have time to breathe, think, and take some time for me. First priority is staying alive. Keeping my family safe but after that, I need to formulate some kind of plan. If I don’t, I fear the chemical reaction that’s going on inside my body, plus being married to an insensitive knobhead, and this very unnerving sense of time running out, will do for me.
And I’m not done yet. Bubbly Babs Finch is down, but she’s certainly not out.
CHAPTERELEVEN
ROBIN
Doyou know what it feels like to be trapped? Not down a hole, or backed into a corner down a dark alley, squished against passengers on the Tube or stuck in a lift between floors. I mean by upbringing, loyalty, love, and faith.
I’m held prisoner by all of these. Well I was until something had to give and in order to stay sane, I’ve abandoned the one thing that was as natural to me as breathing. Turned my back on God, my beliefs, and everything I held dear because the crippling rage that exists deep inside me had to be exorcised. The hate and revulsion I have for my husband, the Very Reverend Edmund Hilyard.
I cannot bear to look at him, or hear his voice, his preaching, the sound he makes when he eats, so I took revenge the only way I could. I withdrew from his life, our marriage and I suppose one could say my job, one that I truly loved in spite of my wobbly start.
It was the role I felt destined for, seeing as at the time there was no route into the priesthood for women, not in our Church of England, anyway. That didn’t happen until 1994 and by then I was invested in my marriage and motherhood. Instead of following my vocation, I followed in my darling mother’s footsteps and became the vicar’s wife.
I was so good at it. Gave it all I had. Wiped the slate clean and put my desires and regrets, all that fanciful stuff to bed. Got on with looking after our beautiful baby girl, making a home, answering the phone, organisinghisdiary and church events. Teaching at Sunday school – was my absolute favourite, best day of the week especially when Willow and Gina joined the group. Oh, how those two made me laugh. Jesus’s very own dedicated disciples, my little helpers.
Being the best vicar’s wife ever helped me through the days; years, I suppose. It diverted my attention and back then I told myself it wasn’t Edmund’s fault, or God’s, that I had succumbed to temptation. It was my weakness and if I focused on priorities, repeated my wedding vows like a mantra, I’d be forgiven. I’d be okay.
And it worked. For half of my married life, I convinced myself I was happy, that I’d made the right choice and then, when I was least expecting it, he came back. Not God, or Jesus, in case you’re wondering if I’d had visitation from the almighty.
Arty came back.
I’m sorry, I haven’t explained it all properly, have I?
I was an only child and totally enamoured by our happy, loving family way of life. My father’s parish was in a semi-rural Gloucestershire town and, as I had no desire to go to university, once I’d finished my A levels my father arranged an administrative job at the diocese headquarters in Tewkesbury. Around a year later, I met Edmund at a garden party hosted by our bishop.
I was instantly taken with this newly anointed, earnest man who’d followed his calling and taken his first appointment in a rougher area of the city. He was only five years older than me, yet seemed so worldly wise, well-educated, tall, and handsome in a rather James Stewart, 1950s gentlemanly way.
On his part it was a slow burn relationship, whereas I was like a giddy colt who couldn’t wait to get out of the stable and into the grown-up world of dating and all the bits and bobs that went with it. Yes, that’s what me and my best friend Francesca used to call sex. We were so cloistered within our social circle, and we existed in a make-believe world, happy but so out of touch with reality.
Even now I feel such love for those two naïve girls who looked at life from the perspective of Sandra Dee, thoroughly lousy with virginity. But I’ll come back to that in a minute, the rules and regulations around the bits and bobs and marriage. First I need to explain about Arty.
